


Sure Thing

by LaughableLament



Series: Supernatural Poetry Month [13]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Bottom Sam, Community: spnapo, Episode Tag, First Time, Hurt Sam, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Episode: s12e02 Mamma Mia, Prose Poem, Remix, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-25 15:47:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10767405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughableLament/pseuds/LaughableLament
Summary: Little brother needs me.(Post-farmhouse hurt/comfort.)





	Sure Thing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lira_Chimera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lira_Chimera/gifts), [caffeinechesters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/caffeinechesters/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Fifty-Fifty](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9915986) by [LaughableLament](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughableLament/pseuds/LaughableLament). 



> A smutty alternate ending.

One beer turns into three turns into six, and when that don’t get it done, chicken-wing for the rotgut stashed in the back of the island. Pictures in a pocket. One more Winchester cheats death, literal wish-come-true but that light’s a freight train, always is. Settle for a couple of Heaven-level memories before…

Water surges. Sammy’s up, but no, fifty-fifty now, like when Cas was around, except, Cas ain’t never been much for washin. Clock check… Yeah that’s Sam. Found his jeans in the motel trash, boxers too. Don’t gotta be Gil Grissom to figure why he ain’t sleepin.

 _Little brother needs me._ Heave up, BAC lands a suckerpunch. Lean hard on the sink, breathe deep. Splash a little water and set off searching.

Shower’s empty. Sam’s door’s open: shirtless in gray track pants; waist low on Santa boxers, (clearance) Valentine’s gift. Kid looks good, considering. Tan and tall and lean.

Head pops out from under his towel. “Hey.”

“Heya Sammy.” Kick at the doorjamb. Who’da thought the not-dead speech never gets any easier? Towel hits the floor and two hundred pounds of brother hurtle forward. Grab his neck, haul him in and breathe fresh sweat, rosemary soap, and Sam. “I thought I’d lost—”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Fair. Didn’t come here to open a vein, but, the heat of him, solid and whole… “Can’t leave you alone for five minutes, huh?”

“Guess not,” Sam says, and there it is. Eyes glint, nose flares, even after all this shit.

_Swing a hammer at him._

Still, or, maybe again.

_If he comes back…_

Either way…

_Fuck it._

“I…” breathe, “stood there in that graveyard, ready to die, again,” look up, “and for keeps this time and there’s God, and Cas, and friggin Crowley, and I—” Hook his chin. Crooked mouth and wrinkled brow. Hair stuck up in the back. “just had this one regret.”

Kiss him. Dry slide, grip enough to mean it, wheel away.

Wonder reflects above the sink, then Sam drops to the bed and he’s thumbing that palm, and “Sammy? Hey…” Knees hit cold concrete, jar teeth. “Fuck, I didn’t mean—”

Watery smile. “I’m… It’s okay.”

“Like Hell.” Spring up. Tackle him sideways, crossways. Suffer a headbutt and two bruised shins but clutch him, baby-Sammy style, chest-smashed.

“What the Hell, Dean?” or something like, droolier than necessary. Sam pinches tender underarm skin. “Get offa me.”

Smell his hair. Try not to be too gross about it. “You wanna talk?” Turn him loose.

Sam rolls back, stares at the spinning fan. “About…”

“The farmhouse.”

“No.”

Still alive to see his grays. “You sure?”

“Was total bush league,” and he means it, which—

“Sometimes that’s worse.”

Sam huffs. “How bout you?” He curls, props on his elbow. Hair and skin and muscles shift.

“Nah.” Catch his eyes. _You know everything._

“Dean, what—” Sam reaches, balks. “Why are you here?”

“Checkin on my pain-in-the-ass little brother, you know, since you got beat up by girls.” Meet his hand, just kinda, bump knuckles.

That grin. “I noticed they beat your ass pretty thoroughly too.”

“Wasn’t a fair fight.” Root around, palm-to-palm.

Sam curls his fingers. “What are you asking for?”

“Nothin.”

Bullshit squint.

“I’m offerin.” Stand up. “Brood on it awhile, figure out what you want.” Slip slow; hand falls to the bedspread. “We been a in shitstorm lately and it’s no time to be makin life choices.”

Almost a chuckle. “Aren’t we always in a shitstorm?”

Head for—

“What.” Voice break. “What are you offering.”

Slump. “My life, Sam.” Head shake. “S’like always.”

Bedsprings creak and Sam looms up behind. Fingers brand through zipper teeth. “And this?” Get tight under his palm. “Why now?”

“Because?” Because, “Because,” _because_ , “why not?” Reassuring pissy snort parts neck hair. Breathe into him. “M’tired, man.” Grunt. “Burnin gas, circlin this thing.” Sandwiched: Sam’s hips, Sam’s hand. Rock heavy against him once, _oh, fuck_. Hard sidestep. “You don’t, have to do this, dude, not now. I _know_ that skank—”

“Please don’t.”

Nod.

Big palm, sharp-corner belt buckle, “I’m done waiting.” Sam shoves the door shut.

Tumble with him. Scratched scalp, bit lips, hard and raw around the mouth and… Claws with this kid: belt loops, jeans seams. Sweat bright bare chest, clumped hair. Tight little nipples. Sam strips: shoes and clothes and wits. Get pinned; grind. Hot and fuckin huge hard.

Half-laugh, “Fu-u-uck, been-ah,” buck, bump, and groan, “long time since I took dick man, you got—”

Sam pops to his knees. Arch after him. “You…”  Eyebrows mull. “I don’t…” gaze darts away, “want that.”

“Okay,” lick lips and grin. Fingertips bump over lines of his abs. Palm at his breastbone, up, collarbone, curl behind his neck. Sam shakes. Pull him down, roll him under and kiss him soft. “How you wanna come then?” Sam’s chest rumbles; teeth come out. _Bossy shit._ “Y’want me to fuck you, Sammy? Bend you in half and blo—”

“God yes fuck yes.” Glasseyed.

Hand-comb his hair. “You sure?”

Sam locks on. One warm kiss, wet swipe of tongue.

“Be right back. Gotta get a rubber.”

“I-don’t-want-that-either.” Forearm deathgrip.

“Dude. Come on, I—”

“Cas just healed us.”

Show palms. He ain’t wrong.

Kid scares up lube. Don’t ask. Palm warm it and push his thighs apart. Slip between, slick behind his balls and back. Press in when he breathes out.

Sam shakes, fire-god hot. Begs and he thrashes, “More,” won’t lay still. Pants, “It’s enough,” when it’s clearly not.

“Ain’t gonna hurt you Sam.”

“No, you’re not, s’what I’m saying.” Jerks and wiggles, tryin to stuff himself. “Fuck, big brother, please?” and his eyes shoot up, lots of white.

Stare back. Show him tongue. “Please what, Sammy?” Lashes droop. Finger fuck him. Feel around for—

Sam rattles. “ _Please_ , fuck me.”

“Am fuckin you.” Pinch him a little, one hip. Twist and Sam lifts off the bedspread. Weather a death glare coming down. “All right all right.” Pull back, play with his balls. “You-ah. You want it—”

“So I can see your face.”

“My god you’re a sap.” 

Sam grins.

_Yes._

Sweat it, gettin in; knew he wasn’t wet enough.

“Don’t stop,” muttered chant, “don’t—”

Stop. Gotta breathe. Sam folds, holds his thighs and lifts and it’s gravity, mostly. _Don’tcomedon’tcomedon’tcomedon’tcome._ “Sammy I ain’t—”

Inside muscles pull and that’s it, check please—

“M’so close Dean please stop teasing me.”

 _That what I’m doin?_ Teeth and hips grind.

“Faster.”

_Yes._

Tip to him, brace in the mattress. “Sam.” _Sam, fucking, Sam. Fucking Sam._ Hand-between jerks like he hates himself. “Sammy.”

Something like sobs.

“S’alright little brother, you got this,” hope he fuckin does “come all over yourself,” ain’t gonna—

Sam bites his lip so hard gotta cut blood. Rhythm breaks, ears pound, bones quake. Say his name, listen to him, huffing soft and slap crash…

Afterglow. Token cuddle protest bubbles up from—someone dumb. Doodle Sam’s chest, circles and lines. Start to drift.

“Dean?”

Grunt.

“What do you…” Swallows so hard it jostles. “What’ll we do now?”

 _S’not a bad question_. “I dunno, same as always I guess. Drive, kill evil, screw.” Raise up, flip a grin at him. “Course there’ll be a lot more of—”

“What about Mom?”

 _Now that one’s shitty_. “Come on, man, you think she’ll figure it out? Dad never did and you were…”

Sam may as well be fifteen, red in the face with, “Not subtle.”

Trace his jaw. “Stunning.” Kiss him. Taste faint-faded peppermint, scrape his tongue and lick his teeth. “Sam, we’re gonna be okay, you understand me? We’ll—”

“Figure it out?”

“Damn right.”

“Cause we always do.”

“Fuck yeah.”

Knots ease out of his forehead.

“I should go.”

“What?”

“These beds, aren’t really—”

“Please stay.”

No sane man’d say no to that.

**Author's Note:**

> [caffeinechesters](https://caffeinechesters.tumblr.com) [challenged me](https://laughablelament.tumblr.com/post/160070915485/for-the-fic-asks-multiples-of-5-please) to write an alternate ending for a fic. I chose [Fifty-fifty](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9915986), and this is the result of that effort.
> 
> Also, Lira has been bugging me to write a sequel for ages. How's this work for ya? :p


End file.
